He snorted, almost laughed. Then he palmed the roll, looked the girl in the eye, and said, “Bathroom break. Be right back.”
He left through a side door. The volunteer watched him go, then looked at me. “Is he coming back?”
I shrugged. “I doubt it.”
She stared, then finally smiled, like maybe this was the best thing that’d happened all morning. “You know how to put the suit on?”
“Do I look like an amateur?” I shot back, and she actually giggled. I liked her for that.
I unrolled the suit, shook out the red felt and white trim. It was two sizes too small, but I made it work. The beard itched like insulation, but at least it covered most of my face. The hatwouldn’t fit over the hood, so I crammed it down as far as I could and let the pom-pom dangle over my left ear.
The girl helped pin the name tag to my chest—“SANTA BOB”—and handed me a laminated schedule of events. “You got ten minutes,” she said, “then you walk down the main hall and take the throne. Smile for the parents, wave at the kids, don’t make promises about ponies or anything alive, and whatever you do, don’t let anyone sit on your lap more than thirty seconds.”
I took it all in. “What’s the record for the day?”
She grinned. “Five hours, forty-seven minutes. Don’t worry, you won’t break it.”
I flexed my hands, which felt naked without a cigarette or a beer. “Got a mirror?”
She pointed to the utility closet, which had a cracked bathroom mirror taped to the inside of the door. I ducked in, took a look, and almost laughed out loud.
Santa Bob, meet the Ghost of Christmas Felony.
The beard barely hid my stubble, and the hat kept sliding off my skull. The suit strained across my shoulders, leaving a gap at the wrist where my tattoos showed like prison bars. I looked less like a jolly old elf and more like the kind of Santa that showed up in children’s nightmares, stealing their presents and then threatening to shank the Easter Bunny behind the Waffle House.
I pulled a flask from my boot—old habit—and took a long pull. Cheap whiskey, but it did the job. The warmth bloomed in my chest, chased off the nerves, and reminded me why I was here. I practiced a couple “Ho Ho Ho”s, but they came out like coughs or threats. I tried again, softer.
“Ho, ho, ho,” I whispered, voice raspy from the smoke and the cold. “Merry fucking Christmas.”
I liked the sound of it.
Outside the door, the noise was getting louder. Parents corralling kids, the bounce and drone of Christmas carols, the wheeze of a busted PA system.
The girl knocked. “Ready?”
I nodded, popped the beard over my chin, and squared my shoulders. “Let’s make some Christmas memories,” I said.
She giggled, then yanked the door open and led me out into the corridor.
I paused for a second, just to savor the feeling. Not nerves, not dread. Something else. Like the ghost of hope, or maybe just the knowledge that for the next hour, nobody expected me to be anything except exactly what I was, a fraud in a red suit, faking it for the crowd, trying to hold it together long enough to get through the day.
I flexed my hands, felt the fabric rip at the seams, and walked toward the sound of children screaming.
Santa Claus was coming to town.
***
The main hall of Fable Christian Church was a crime against good taste and probably several fire codes. There were enough blinking lights to trigger an epileptic episode, tinsel everywhere, and a dump truck’s worth of plastic snow so dense you couldn’t see the actual tile beneath it. Someone had built a North Pole out of PVC pipe and packing peanuts; every time a kid bumped it, it shed a new layer of drifts on the floor. At the end of it all was my destination, the high-backed velvet throne surrounded by mechanical reindeer with dead eyes and a mound of cotton-ball snow that looked like a cocaine bust from the ‘80s.
The second I stepped into the light, a hundred eyes turned and did that flicker of hope to confusion to something darker. Parents hustled their kids forward, shoving them into line, butthe kids were wary. Some went full statue, locked in terror. A few started crying before I even sat down. It was a beautiful thing.
I plopped onto the throne. It creaked under my weight, and the fake beard slid up over my mouth. I yanked it down, then motioned for the first kid to approach.
He was five, maybe six. His name tag said “Jimmy,” and he looked like he’d seen some shit already. His mom hovered behind him, camo parka and a look on her face that said she’d tackle Santa if he got too handsy.
Jimmy climbed onto my lap with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man. I patted his back, handed him a candy cane, and said, “Whaddaya want, Jimmy? Don’t say a puppy, ‘cause those things piss everywhere and Santa’s not dealing with that this year.”
Jimmy blinked, mouth open. I leaned in, let him get a whiff of the whiskey on my breath. “Santa knows when you’ve been stealing your sister’s toys, Jimmy. Might wanna return that Barbie Jeep before Christmas morning if you want anything besides coal.”
